Invitation
by ellenin2
Summary: John receives an invitation, sort of.
1. Chapter 1

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street," he said. And then, he winked.

It wasn't just any wink. It was a boisterous wink, a loud wink: if a wink could be said to shout, that wink howled to the rafters. It was no-holds-barred and larger-than-life. It was exuberant, glorious, magnificent.

I had come into the lab with my old friend without any hope of a positive outcome as regards my living situation, or any hope at all, really. But after listening to him tell me about myself, I was actually beginning to stir from my apathy. And then, the wink.

That wink. Good God. The man had no idea.

Well, actually, that's not true. He just proved, in about five minutes, that he is one of the smartest people I'm ever likely to meet. He had to know.

After all, it was an obvious wink.

Just to be sure, I looked up the word wink on my computer when I got to my bed-sit. Wink: to signal a message, to invite, or to tease by closing an eyelid.

I wonder which it was. I'm going to find out. This should prove interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Invitation, Ch. 2

Language: English

Characters: Sherlock / John

Type: Adventure / Romance (perhaps, someday)

I met with him to go see the flat at 221B. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady (not housekeeper), seemed nice. However, the place was a mess, which I didn't hesitate to point out.

As Holmes flits about making a token effort to tidy up the place, I sigh to myself. I realize the wink was just an invitation to be a flatmate, and only a flatmate, from someone who has limited social skills. He must not have known about the other definitions of a wink. No flirting or messaging intended. Pity.

He and Mrs. Hudson squabble a bit about the landlady vs. housekeeper issue, then she mentions a rash of recent suicides and goes on about what is the world coming to. Then, he gets a visitor. A man named Lestrade, a DI from Scotland Yard, asks him to come with him to a recent crime scene. He says he'll go on his own, gets ready, and leaves.

I sit down, and suddenly my disappointment at misreading his intention, my irritation with my leg, and my frustration at being left behind make me yell out loud. Mrs. Hudson tries to commiserate, but she doesn't get the whole picture, and I don't illustrate it for her. No need to get more out of sorts than I did when she asked about separate bedrooms.

Then, he's back. He looks right at me and makes another invitation; it is one that anyone else but him would judge me for, but he doesn't even blink. I'm not stupid, so I don't hesitate. It isn't the invitation I had been hoping for yesterday, but it is an invitation that I need all the same.

I was right. This has proven to be interesting. I can't wait to see what happens next.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Invitation, Ch. 3

Language: English

Characters: Sherlock / John

Type: Adventure / Romance (perhaps, someday)

I sat next to him in the cab and considered him and his rather (extraordinary) non-judgmental behavior thus far. I looked at him while he searched on his mobile. He noticed my curiosity, and said, "Ok, you've got questions."

It took all that I had to not ask him about the wink. I thought I'd start with the most obvious question first and maybe I'd get a chance to work up to the wink. So: "Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next."

I thought it was time to find out more about him: "Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?"

Hmmm, "I'd say private detective..."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives."

He smirks, then says, "I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

The contempt in his voice is subtle yet profound. Interesting, but I think he must be having me on. I grin and say, "The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock then proceeds to prove how right my statement was, in the literal sense. He tells me how he deduced my return from the middle East, the state of my mental and physical health, and my fractured relationship with Harry, even personal information about Harry, and all of this within the first five minutes of our meeting each other yesterday afternoon. He didn't get everything perfectly, but, still, "That. Was amazing."

He is quiet for a moment, then says, "You think so?"

From his reaction, I get the idea that he doesn't hear that very often. In fact, I think he thinks I'm taking the piss. So, credit where credit is due: "Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary." He is one of the most interesting people I've ever met. I don't tell him this, though. He'll most likely deduce it. Also, his ego doesn't need that much of a lift.

Still doubtful, he says, "That's not what people usually say."

So I was right, he doesn't hear praise or appreciation very often. I am curious, so I ask, "What do people normally say?"

He grinned both sardonically and somewhat self-deprecatingly and answered, "Piss off."

I could only smile at that. I was right, though. This is proving to be interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Invitation, Ch. 4

Language: English

Characters: Sherlock / John

Type: Adventure / Romance (perhaps, someday)

"Did I get anything wrong?

Hmm. I guess he isn't as self-assured as I thought.

"Harry and me don't get along, never have. Clara and Harry split up, three months ago, and are getting a divorce. Harry is a drinker." All of the things he got correct.

"Spot on, then." He looks pleasantly surprised. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"Harry's short for Harriet." This brings Sherlock to a stop, right in the middle of the street. I walk past him, then stop and turn to look at him.

"Harriet is your sister." He says, quietly, staring straight ahead.

I turn forward again and look at the gathering of police, and ask, "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" I know he said back at the flat that he offered for me to look at more dead bodies, but that can't be all I'm expected to do. I really don't think the police are just going to let a bystander in to gape, so Sherlock must have something else in mind.

"Sister!" He sounds thoroughly disgusted with himself for his assumption about Harry's gender, and his body language is tense as he starts moving forward again.

I break into his self-absorption and ask again, "No, seriously, what am I doing here?" After all, I want to keep my story straight if the police ask me any questions.

"It's always something," he mutters as we reach the police line, and doesn't answer my question. I'm not even sure he heard me.

There is a woman walking towards the other side of the police tape, and we all meet up next to a panda. She is holding a walkie-talkie, and glaring at Sherlock. Her greeting isn't exactly friendly either: "Hello, Freak."

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock replies politely.

"Why?" she asks.

"I was invited," he says, pointedly, but still polite.

"Why," she grinds out. She really doesn't like him. I wonder why.

"I think he wants me to take a look," he replies, stating what I'm sure he feels should be obvious.

"Well you know what I think," she continues, sarcastically, "don't you?"

Her attitude doesn't stop Sherlock from lifting the police tape and ducking under it. "Always, Sally," he says, as if they've had this conversation before. They probably have. I think she must be one of the many people that's told him to 'Piss Off." He sniffs, then says, "I know you didn't make it home last night." Sally looks startled for a moment, then notices that Sherlock is holding up the police tape for me to duck under. She stutters as she asks who I am.

"A colleague of mine, Doctor Watson. Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend."

Sgt. Donovan looks at Sherlock disbelievingly. I can see why. I didn't think they were friends. "A colleague. How do you get a colleague?" Never mind, not friends. I'm what she doesn't believe. "What," as she points at Sherlock and looks at me, "did he follow you home?" she asks me.

"Would it be better if I just waited, and...?" I ask Sherlock as I turn around and look for the cab, but it's gone. I really don't want to be caught up in whatever this is between the two of them, but Sherlock puts a stop to it. He says, "No!" as he raises the police tape high enough for me to only have to duck my head as I walk under it. Sgt. Donovan looks on for another second, then turns around, and walks towards the building as she raises her walkie-talkie and says, "Freak's here, bringing him in." Charming.

She speeds ahead of us, while Sherlock and I head towards the building. Sherlock is checking out the street and front of the building as a man in a blue clean-suit comes charging up to us.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock drawls, "here we are again."

Anderson gets right in Sherlock's personal space and snarls, "It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated, are we clear on that?"

Huh, he's talking to Sherlock as if Sherlock is an idiot. I can't say as I much care for his attitude, and I'm pretty sure Sherlock doesn't either.

"Quite clear," Sherlock's tone just dropped the ambient temperature another couple of degrees. "And is your wife away for long?"

Uh oh.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out! Somebody told you that." His scorn was palpable.

Incoming.

"Your deodorant told me that," was Sherlock's rather off-hand reply.

"My deodorant," Anderson repeats, nonplussed.

Wait for it...

"It's for men!" Sherlock trills, snarkily.

"Well, of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!" Anderson replies as Sgt. Donovan looks on, both of them with disbelieving scowls on their faces.

Wait for it...

Sherlock tilts his head to look behind Anderson, and says, "So's Sgt. Donovan."

Anderson spins around to look at a gape-mouthed Donovan.

Sherlock wasn't done rubbing it in. He sniffs again and says, "Ooph, and I think it just vaporized," referring to the deodorant, "may I go in now?"

Anderson spins back around and says, "Look, whatever you're trying to imply," as he shakes his finger back and forth in the universal signal for No, no, no, you've got it all wrong. Donovan looks stunned, then embarrassed.

Honestly, for all the time that these two must have known Sherlock, they really should've known better.

Sherlock cuts him off and states, "I'm not implying anything," as he moves around Anderson and heads towards the steps to the building. He continues, "I'm sure Sally came around for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over," as he passes by Sally, who closes her eyes as if wishing a hole would open in the ground and swallow either her or Sherlock up. He turns around and puts on the finishing touch. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." He half-grins, turns, and enters the building.

Ouch.

I was thinking about asking him about the wink. Now I think I'll hold off for a while, as I really don't want him to verbally hand me my arse on a platter.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Invitation, Ch. 5

Language: English

Characters: Sherlock / John

Type: Adventure / Romance (perhaps, someday)

"You need to wear one of these," Sherlock states, pointing to a blue clean-suit on a table. He stops walking and talking, and stands next to DI Lestrade, who is putting on one of the clean-suits. Sherlock starts to take off his leather gloves.

Lestrade looks over at me and asks, "Who's this?"

"He's with me," Sherlock replies, as he puts his leather gloves into his coat pocket and picks up a pair of latex gloves off the supply table.

Lestrade looks back at Sherlock. "But who is he?"

"I said, he's with me," Sherlock says again, pointedly, looking right at Lestrade as if daring him to object.

"Aren't you going to put one on?" I ask. Sherlock just stares at me.

"So where are we?" Sherlock asks Lestrade.

"Upstairs."

We leave the room and head up the staircase as Sherlock starts putting on his latex gloves. Lestrade is in the lead and looks over his shoulder at Sherlock as he says, "I can give you two minutes."

"I may need longer," replies Sherlock.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards, we're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here for long," Lestrade shoots back over his shoulder, then turns and continues talking as we reach the next landing and keep going up. "Some kids found her."

We keep going up, then stop at the doorway to a room that has a PC standing guard outside. There is a woman lying front side down on the floor. Her head is turned to the right, and her arms are up at her sides, hands palm side down and parallel with her head. She is blonde and wearing a bright pink dress suit. There is no sign of blood. Her body is almost...tidy. At least, tidy in comparison with the last ones I saw in Afghanistan. I close my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the images my mind throws up at me for comparison.

Lestrade is standing at ease to the right of the doorway, and both he and Sherlock are looking at the woman's body. Sherlock's head is tilted to the side as he contemplates what he's seeing. "Shut up," he says suddenly as he looks up and over at Lestrade. No one was saying anything.

Lestrade whips his head around to look at Sherlock and sounds startled when he says, "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking. It's annoying," was Sherlock's response. Lestrade looks at me as if to say, is he serious? I just look back at the woman's body.

Sherlock has stepped over to the body, and continued his examination. He looks at some scratches on the floor that look like letters. Then he kneels down and runs his gloved right hand across the woman's back and looks at his fingers. Next, he checks the woman's coat pockets, finds something and examines that, puts it back, runs his right hand under the coat collar and looks at his fingers again. He takes out a pocket magnifier and starts a closer examination of the woman. He checks closely at certain points on the woman's hands and neck, then pulls something off the body and holds it up to the light for a second and puts it back.

Lestrade asks, "Got anything?"

Sherlock stands and snaps his right glove off. "Not much," he murmurs, as he puts his magnifier into his coat pocket and pulls out his mobile.

"She's German," says Anderson, from behind me. I turn to look at him. He's leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed. "Rache," he continues, pronouncing it in German. He points at the body. "It means revenge. She could be trying to tell us something." Sherlock walks over to the door as he says, "Yes, thank you for your imput," and slams it shut in Anderson's face all the while looking up something on his mobile. He turns back into the room.

"So she's German," says Lestrade.

"Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in town for one night before returning home to Cardiff." He puts his mobile back into his coat pocket and turns to look at us. "So far so obvious."

"Sorry, obvious?" I ask.

"What about the message?" Lestrade inquires, pointing at the floor.

"Dr. Watson, what do you think?" Sherlock interrupts Lestrade to ask me.

"Of the message?" I turn to look at Lestrade then back at Sherlock, as he replies, "No, of the body. You're a medical man."

"Well, no, we have a whole team outside," Lestrade interjects.

Sherlock looks at him and says, "They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here!"

"Yes, because you need me." After Sherlock says this, I turn to look at Lestrade.

He's quiet for a moment, then says, "Yes, I do. God help me." He's humble and honest. Interesting.

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock continues, and looks at me.

"Hmm?" I then turn to look at Lestrade for permission.

"Oh, do as he says, help yourself," he responds, fed up. He turns to walk out of the room and I can hear him shouting to Anderson to keep everyone out of the room for a moment as Sherlock and I walk over to examine the body. I do my best to kneel down on my good knee, and look over the body at Sherlock as I put my cane down on the floorboards.

"Well?" he asks.

"What am I doing here?" It's the third time I've asked and I'm hoping to finally get an answer.

"Helping me make a point," he whispers.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," I respond. I don't like the idea that I'm stuck in the middle of a pissing contest.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun," he replies.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead," and I point to her as I look at him, just in case he missed it.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," was his equally sarcastic response.

He smiles when I finally accede to his wish to examine the body. I tuck my sore leg under me and kneel on the floor to begin my examination as Lestrade comes back into the room and stands behind us, observing. I lean down and look at her neck, sniff the exposed skin, then lean back and pick up her right hand and examine that for a moment to check the nail beds. I put her hand back on the floor. "Yeah." I pick up my cane and kneel on my good knee. "Asphixiation. Probably passed out, choked on her own vomit." Lestrade and Sherlock exchange a look. "I don't smell any alcohol on her, could have been a seizure, possibly drugs."

"You know what it was," Sherlock says, "you've read the papers."

"What, she's one of the suicides, the four?" I ask, and look back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Alright, you've got two minutes, I said. I need anything you've got," Lestrade says.

Sherlock starts his list of deductions as I get my feet under me and stand. Mid 30s, media person, from Cardiff, overnight stay, suitcase, unhappily married 10 years, string of lovers. When Lestrade goes off on him about making it all up, Sherlock gets stroppy. He points out all of the evidence that proves his conclusions. "It's simple," Sherlock concludes.

"It's brilliant," I say. He turns to look at me. I look up and say, "Sorry," for my interruption. I look down at the body, and try to figure out what Sherlock saw that leads him to his other conclusions.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asks, and Sherlock replies, "It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me," I state. I still can't figure out where he came up with Cardiff.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring," he mutters to himself then continues out lout with his explanation about how he deduced Cardiff from the state of the woman's coat, umbrella and suitcase. He starts up his mobile and shows us the UK weather report for the finishing touch.

That's fantastic, I enthuse to myself, or so I think, because Sherlock says, "Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry, I'll shut up," I mutter.

"Yes. Fine," he responds.

Lestrade then asks about the suitcase that Sherlock keeps mentioning. I haven't seen one, but I turn around to look at the room to have a better look as Sherlock moves about and mentions the suitcase and something about her mobile or organizer, and about someone named Rachel. It turns out the letters scratched onto the floor by the woman in her last moments were supposed to spell Rachel. So much for Anderson and his German revenge. When Sherlock asks Lestrade about the whereabouts of the suitcase and Lestrade tells him there isn't one, Sherlock stops. He asks for confirmation, then darts out of the room shouting to all within hearing asking about a suitcase.

Lestrade insists there never was a suitcase. Sherlock is already halfway down this floor's flight of stairs. I limp after Lestrade to look over the railing and down at Sherlock as he deduces that the deaths are all murders but he doesn't know how yet. He states that the deaths are a result of a serial killer. Lestrade asks why, and Sherlock goes on about the suitcase and asks if Jennifer Wilson ate hers, since she is dead and it isn't there. I point out that she could have checked into a hotel and left it there. He says no due to the state of the woman's hair and clothes, then he stops again because something else just occurred to him. He looks rather stunned by it, actually. He starts muttering about how we usually have to wait for killers to make a mistake. Lestrade, rightfully, insists that we can't just wait for a mistake when Sherlock shouts that the killer has already made a mistake, and tells Lestrade to check into Jennifer Wilson's background in Cardiff to find out who Rachel is.

By this point, Sherlock has reached the ground floor and when Lestrade asks him what the mistake was, Sherlock darts back into view and up a few steps, looks up at us and shouts, "Pink!" then darts off. Lestrade mutters to himself and walks back into the room as a group of forensics people follow him in to start their procedures, and I'm left on the landing to make my way down.

I think about what Sherlock said as I limp downstairs. I try to figure out what her outfit has to do with her suitcase, but I'm frankly at a loss. I hope he'll explain it to me when I meet up with him in the changing room.

He isn't there. I change out of my clean-suit and gloves, put on my jacket, and go outside to look for him.

He isn't there either. Sgt. Donovan notices me looking about, and says, "He's gone."

"Who, Sherlock Holmes?" I ask, just in case she was referring to Anderson or Lestrade.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it," she replies, shaking her head.

"Right." I turn to look around as Donovan turns back to speak to the PC standing next to the panda. "Right," I mutter again to myself as I just now realize that I have no idea where in London I am, or how far it is back to Baker Street. Shite, I don't even have a key to the flat. I hope Mrs. Hudson is still awake by the time I get back and will let me in. I'm obviously on my own for the time being. "Yes, sorry, where am I?" I ask Donovan.

She turns away from the PC and looks at me. "Brixton."

I look around me and ask, "Ah, do you know where I can get a cab?" I pause, then say, "It's just, ah," I look down at my cane, "well, my leg." Shite, I hate this.

She looks at me for a moment, then says, "Uh," walks over to the police tape and raises it up, "try the main road."

I limp past her and duck under the police tape. "Thanks."

"You're not his friend," she says. I stop. "He doesn't have friends," she continues, and I turn around to look at her.

"So who are you?" she asks as she looks me over.

"I'm, I'm nobody," I reply, truthfully. "I just met him."

"A bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy."

"Why?" I am curious about what reasoning she is going to come out with.

"You know why he is here?"

I look back at the doorway to the crime scene and back at her. I don't say the obvious.

"He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it." Donovan smiles. "The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day, just showing up won't be enough. One day, we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there," she finishes, bitterly.

"And why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."

Lestrade steps out of the building and calls her over. "Coming!" she shouts. As she walks away, she gives me a bit of advice, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

I turn around and head for the main road to look for a cab. I think this is one of the strangest days of my life. As if to illustrate that point, a phone box starts to ring incessantly as I walk by.


End file.
